A Touch of Darkness (Hades x Persephone #1)(28)

He said nothing as he pulled Hermes cloak from her body. She hadn’t been prepared or she would have fought for it, instead, she stilled, exposed under Hades gaze. He sat back on his heels as his eyes travelled over her body. They lingered longest on her torn shoulder, catching in all the places her silver dress clung. She drew an arm over her chest, trying to maintain some modesty and then Hades came up onto his knees, bracing his arms on either side of her. From this angle, his face was level with hers. She felt his breath on her lips when he spoke. It smelled of whisky.

“Which side?” he asked.

She kept his gaze a moment before reaching for his hand and pressing it to her side. She was surprised by her boldness, but rewarded with his touch. It was warm and healing. She moaned and leaned into him. If anyone entered his room at this point, they might think he was listening to her heart with the way he was positioned—pressed between her legs, head turned away.

She took a few deep breaths until she no longer felt the ache of her bruised ribs. After a moment, he turned toward her, but did not pull away.

“Better?”

His voice was low, a husky whisper that trailed over her skin. She resisted the urge to shiver.

“Yes.”

“Your shoulder is next,” he said, standing.

She started to turn her head to get a glimpse at the wound, but Hade stopped her with a hand on her cheek.

“No,” he said. “It’s best if you don’t look.”

He turned from her then and stepped into an adjacent room. She heard the sound of running water. While she waited for him to return, she rested on her side, eager to close her tired eyes.

“Wake, my darling.” Hades’ voice was like his touch—warm, luring. He kneeled before her again, blurry at first, and then coming into sharp focus.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Do not apologize,” he said, and start to clean the blood from her shoulder.

“I can do this,” she said, and started to rise, but Hades held her in place and met her gaze.

“Allow me this,” he said. There was something…raw and primal in his eyes she knew she couldn’t argue with, so she nodded.

His touch was gentle, and she closed her eyes. So he would know she wasn’t asleep, she asked questions.

“Why are there dead people in your river?”

“They are the souls who were not buried with coins,” he said.

She opened on eye. “You still do that?”

He smirked. She decided she liked when he smiled. “No. Those dead are ancient.”

“And what do they do? Besides drown the living.”

“That’s all they do,” he replied, matter-of-fact, and Persephone paled. Then she realized that was their purpose. No souls in, no souls out. Anyone who found their way into the Underworld without Hades’ knowledge would have to cross the Styx, and it was not likely they would survive.

She fell silent after that. Hades finished cleaning her wound, and once again, she felt his healing warmth radiate through her. Her shoulder took far longer than her ribs, and she wondered just how bad the injury had been.

Once he was finished, he placed his fingers under her chin. “Change,” he said.

“I…don’t have anything to change into.”

“I have something,” he said, helping her to her feet. He directed her behind a screen and handed her a satin robe. It was short and black. She looked at the piece of fabric and then at him.

“I’m guessing this isn’t yours?”

“The Underworld is prepared for all manner of guests.”

“Thank you,” she said curtly. “But I don’t think I want to wear something one of your lovers has also worn.”

She wished he would have told her there were no lovers, but instead he frowned and said, “It’s either this or nothing at all, Persephone.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“What? Undress you? Happily, and with far more enthusiasm than you realize, my lady.”

She spent a moment glaring at him, and then her shoulders sagged. She was exhausted and frustrated and not interested in challenging the god. She took the robe from him.

“Fine.”

He gave her the privacy she needed to change. She stepped out from behind the partition in the robe and immediately fell under Hades’ gaze. He stared at her for a long moment before clearing his throat, taking her wet dress and hanging it over the screen.

“What now?” She asked.

“You rest,” he said and lifted her into his arms. She wanted to protest. He had healed her, and despite her weariness, she could walk, but she remained quiet, unable to speak. Hades was looking at her and carrying her to his bed. He held her gaze, even as he laid her down and drew the blankets over her body.

Her eyes were heavy with sleep.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and then noted the harsh set of his face. Frowning, she said, “You are angry.”

She reached out to smooth his knitted brows, tracing her finger along the side of his face, over his cheek, and to the corner of his lips. He did not relax under her touch, and she withdrew quickly. She closed her eyes, not wanting to witness his frustration.

“Persephone,” she said.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“I wish to be called Persephone only. Not ‘lady.’”